


Code 221b

by whitchry9



Series: The Patron Saint of Idiots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical, outsider pov, paramedics, what is medical accuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1199257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is well known to the paramedics of London. So when John Watson comes into the picture, it seems like a fantastic solution. Someone would take care of Sherlock and prevent all those problems. Of course, they didn't think about what would happen if John was hurt. (They really should have.)<br/>Written for a prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

 Sherlock Holmes was well known to the London Ambulance Service.

 

Even before he became a consulting detective, he was still occasionally picked up, although those incidents were of a more... delicate nature. (Honestly, legal affairs and government... best not to talk about it.)

 

Miranda Higgins had been with the LAS for eight years. She was still fairly new when Sherlock had come into the picture. (And that's who he was by now, first name basis, not Mr Holmes, he was Sherlock.)

 

She could still recall the first time her husband came home, baffled about a strange call he'd received that day. He worked as a dispatcher at Waterloo, but sometimes he'd also take shifts as an allocator. (She swore it was just so he could call her up and talk.)

“The woman said that he was licking things,” he told her over dinner. “Licking!”

She smiled, and nodded. That really wasn't so strange. “Did you tell her we don't send ambulances for lickings?”

He shook his head. “He was also spectacularly high, from her description anyway.”

“Might explain the licking,” she retorted.

Ronald shook his head again. “No, he was licking things because apparently the suspect wore a certain type of perfume, and he had to lick her shoes to make sure.”

“Mmm... being high could still explain that.”

“No,” he insisted, “Because he was right. I sent police along with the paramedics and they found a warrant out for her arrest, for the exact murder the guy was talking about.”

She made a face. “Are you sure? That sounds a bit odd.”

He shrugged. “I didn't believe it either. But when the police interviewed me about the call... Then I believed it.”

“Well,” she said, standing up and clearing her plate. “I wonder if we'll be hearing from him again soon.”

Her husband snorted. “I dunno. Sounds like he needs to be in rehab for a good long while.”


	2. Overdose

She was called to his first overdose. She didn't know it was him at the time, but later when she did realize, what her husband told her made a lot more sense. Consultant detective or whatever.

 

Ronald was the one who gave her the call.

“It's a flat on Montague Street. Bloke who called it in says he's with the police and that it'll be hard to miss, because of the police car out front. He didn't tell us much else except it's a male, possible drug overdose. Breathing, barely conscious. Hung up before I could get much more.”

 

With blue lights flashing, off they went.

 

The police car was a big tip off, like Ronald had said. Probably for the best, since she couldn't tell if the flat had addresses or not. They found the men on the first floor in a small, two room flat.

The man on the bed was obviously out of it, while the one who must have been the police officer was frantic.

She nodded to her partner Leon to start assessing the patient while she dealt with him.

“Sir, what's your name?” she asked in a soothing voice.

“I'm a DI. I have to stay with him,” he insisted.

“I'm just asking your name,” she replied smoothly, leading him by the elbow back to the corner of the small room.

“Greg. Greg Lestrade.”

“Okay Greg. I'm just going to ask you to stand over here out of the way so my partner and I can take a look at him.”

He nodded, biting his lip.

“What were you doing here Greg?” she asked, slipping her stethoscope into her ears as Leon started a line, the oxygen mask already on the unconscious man's face.

“He's a consultant for the police. He wasn't answering my texts or my calls, so I came to see...”

“Do you know what he took?” she continued, pumping a blood pressure cuff up on the arm that didn't have track marks. Something intravenous, obviously.

He shook his head. “I know he's done cocaine before, but I don't know if this is it, or if it's something else...” He trailed off helplessly.

“Was he talking when you got here? Did he say anything?”

The DI shook his head.

“Does he have any allergies or medical conditions?” she continued, deflating the cuff. “180 over 94,” she said quietly to Leon. He nodded and grabbed the drug kit.

“Erm... not that I know of. He's allergic to bees.”

“Okay,” she told Lestrade. “Not too much we can do,” she murmured to Leon. “Let's package him to go.”

“What's his name?” she said more loudly, in the DI's direction.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

She frowned. Funny name.

“Sherlock, we're taking you to hospital.”

The man barely stirred, groaning slightly.

“Okay, let's move him. Can you come help?” she asked the man in the corner.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Just by his knees there,” she directed.

 

As soon as they got him on the gurney, and Leon was attaching the first strap, Sherlock began to flail.

He moaned and fought against them, kicking at Leon. The man was surprisingly strong for how thin he was, and considering he had previously been practically unconscious, it was quite impressive. Of course, it was also not helpful.

“Leon, get the diazepam,” she bellowed, attempting to keep her patient from falling off the gurney.

“Sherlock, we're helping you. Calm down,” she soothed, to no avail.

Lestrade looked torn as to what to do.

“Can you grab his arm,” she suggested, busy holding his legs down so he couldn't kick Leon.

Lestrade held the arm down with the IV line in it while Leon slowly pushed the drug. The DI whispered to Sherlock, but Miranda didn't think he was listening.

He settled down after a moment, returning to the state he was in when they first arrived. Semi-conscious, but pliable.

“Well be taking him to UCLH,” Leon told the DI while helping Miranda attach the rest of the straps.

“He's coming,” she told him before Lestrade could speak.

He flashed her a grateful smile as they packed up the bags.

“Do you want me to... help with something?” he offered, looking rather lost.

She threw a bag into his arms. “Thanks.”

With their now compliant patient safely bundle and strapped in, they headed down the flight of stairs to the waiting ambulance.

 

They were at UCLH within five minutes and she bid the DI farewell.

“Hopefully I don't see either of you again soon,” she told him.

Lestrade half smiled. They both suspected it wouldn't be the last time they crossed paths.

 

Oh, if only they knew then.

 


	3. A Study in Pink

 They're dispatched to Roland-Kerr Further Education College. There's been a shooting.

The man is dead when they get there, possibly since the call was made, and there's nothing they can do. Most of his blood volume is on the floor of the library.

Instead they attend to the man who was standing next to the man when he was shot.

Sherlock Holmes.

 

She doesn't realize it's him for a while, after all, it had been nearly two years since she'd seen him, and he wasn't looking his best then. (Besides, she saw _a lot_ of patients.)

It wasn't until a police officer came over and addressed him by name (the same police officer who was in the flat, she realized) that it clicked.

“What happened Sherlock?” he sighed.

“I caught you your serial killer,” he replied.

“He's dead,” the DI replied, deadpan.

Sherlock tilted his head. “Ah, more or less.”

The DI sighed and walked away to speak to one of his colleagues.

 

Miranda took that opportunity to speak with him.

“Sherlock Holmes?” she asked.

He nodded, frowning at her.

“I'm Miranda. Can I take your vitals?”

“I'm fine,” he huffed.

“I'm sure you are, but I'd just like to make sure. It sounds like you had quite a shock.”

He shrugged, but offered an arm to her. “Not very far out of the ordinary though.”

She smiled and wrapped the cuff around his arm.

“What do you do Mr Holmes?”

“I'm a consulting detective,” he replied.

“Really?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Of course.”

 

She packed up her kit.

“Your vitals are indeed in normal range. Shall I go inform your friend?” she asked, gesturing to the DI.

Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose. It would probably make him feel better.”

She smiled. After dumping her bag, she walked over to speak to Lestrade.

 

As soon she finished telling the man that Sherlock was indeed fine, she spotted Karl draping a blanket over Sherlock, who seemed confused as to its purpose.

He said as much to his DI friend, who only shrugged.

“Yeah, it's for shock.”

“I'm not in shock!” Sherlock protested.  
“Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs,” he retorted.

Miranda held back her snicker.

 

She tuned the rest of the conversation out, and it was only when Sherlock was leaving that she noticed he'd kept the blanket and acquired a friend.

Interesting.


	4. The Great Game

 An entire building in Central London got destroyed, and yet the only person who managed to get injured was Sherlock bloody Holmes.

 

He was fighting with her partner, Alicia. Alicia was relatively new, and hadn't had the joy of meeting Sherlock yet. She'd managed to get him sitting down on a stretcher on the sidewalk, but beyond that, nothing else. He was still fully clothed and Miranda was fairly sure that Alicia hadn't even been able to touch him yet.

“Mr Holmes, isn't it?” she said loudly, striding into the middle of their argument.

He frowned at her. “Yes. Sherlock.”

“Hello Sherlock. I'm Miranda.” She doubted that he'd remember her. Uniforms did wonderful things that way. She was simply another paramedic to him.

“Can I take a look at your back?” she asked gently. The dressing gown he was wearing was torn, and she could see dark patches where he'd likely bled onto the shirt underneath. “I think you have some glass in it.”

Alicia took the opportunity to slip away and grab one of their bags from the ambulance.

“I'm fine,” he said distractedly. “John can take care of it.”

“Who's John?” she asked, making notes.

“My flatmate. He's a doctor. He can take care of it.”

“You have a doctor for a flatmate?” he asked, surprised.

Sherlock looks at her and frowns. “Yeah. Why is that such a shock?”

She shook her head. “It's not. It's quite a good choice for you to be honest. But John isn't here now, so can I take a look?”

He sighed, but relented, letting the dressing gown slide down his shoulders.

The t-shirt underneath was torn and ripped as well, and the dark spots were blood.

“Can I cut it off, or do you have a particularly strong attachment to this inside out shirt?” she asked wryly.

“Is it? I hadn't noticed,” he said. “No, I don't care.”

She snipped it off with the scissors to reveal his back.

“It's not too bad,” she told him. “None of them should need stitches.”

“Like I said, I'm fine.”

“I'll take the glass out, flush them, and bandage them up for you. When is your doctor friend coming back?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “In the morning? We had a row. Sort of. I'm not sure. But I can take care of myself,” he insisted.

Miranda smiled at him. “I'm not overly inclined to believe that. I think I'll help you out a bit.”

“Don't you have... heart attacks to attend to or something?” he said, waving a hand vaguely.

“Nope. Because of the bombing, there are more units working today. We're here just for you, since it seems you're the only one who managed to get hurt.”

He sniffed indignantly at that.

“Lay down,” she told him.

He sighed heavily, but obeyed.

 

Half an hour later and she was finishing taping the dressings down on Sherlock's back.

“Keep them clean,” she told him. “Watch for signs of infection. Have your doctor friend change the bandages and let him have a look at them. And please, don't go running around London falling off buildings until they heal.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “How do you know about that?”

She laughed. “Because you're Sherlock Holmes. All of the paramedics know about you.”

He pondered that for a minute. “Interesting.”

“We wondered why we'd been seeing less of you recently. I suppose it's because of John.”

Sherlock scowled and stood up.

“Take care Sherlock Holmes,” Miranda told him.

Shouldering his torn dressing gown, he strode off towards his flat. She saw him a moment later, peering out through the remnants of the shattered windows.

She waved at him.

 

Violin music drifted down shortly after.


	5. John's Fall

 The next run in she had with Sherlock Holmes involved John Watson, and it was possibly one of the most awful calls she'd had.

Give her car accidents, near drownings, heart attacks, overdoses, seizures, suicide attempts, strokes, _anything_ but an injured John Watson and a frantic Sherlock Holmes.

 

Of course, it was nearing the end of her shift when they got the call. It was a universally recognized constant of the paramedic world. The worst calls would always come at the most inconvenient times. (Shift change, when there were no ambulances, or when someone really had to use the loo.)

But such as it was, so she sighed, but off they went.

 

Thirty something year old male, fall. Unconscious but breathing. Possible head trauma, broken leg. Friend is hysterical. Police backup also sent.

 

Basically, the call was everything she didn't want, and that was before she even knew who it was.

 

She was working with Leon again, bless him, because he was fabulous throughout the whole thing.

They were sent to Ashland Place, and when they pulled up, all she could see was an outline of a tall man hovering next to a mass on the ground.

That coat... she'd recognize it anywhere. Combine that with the hair and those bloody cheekbones and it was definitely Sherlock Holmes.

Which meant the patient was probably his friend, the doctor who she hadn't yet met.

But the dispatcher was right. Sherlock was indeed hysterical, and not being of any help. They didn't even know how the man was hurt.

 

Leon went to the unconscious man, and she went to Sherlock.

“Sherlock! What happened?”

What came out of his mouth next was a blur of words, possibly not all in English, but none of it making sense.

What she did understand was him gesturing to the scaffolding a story above.

“Did he fall from there?” she demanded.

He nodded.

“Leon, possible spinal injury,” she called over her shoulder.

“Got it,” he called.

 

She turned her attention back to Sherlock. He was hyperventilating, waving his hands about frantically, and seemed like he was about to collapse.

If he didn't calm down, they were going to have two patients on their hands shortly. And that was all that John needed.

 

“Sherlock!” she bellowed. “You are endangering your friend. Sit down now,” she hissed.

To her amazement, he flopped down on the sidewalk.

“We are going to help him, and you are going to stay there, out of the way.”

She turned back to Leon, who was still holding c-spine.

 

“Sherlock's what's his name?”

“John Watson,” came the shaky reply.

“John,” she called loudly. “John, can you hear me?”

“He's been unconscious for nine and a half minutes,” Sherlock provided.

“Thank you Sherlock,” she muttered, pressing a finger to his pulse, pleased that it was strong and steady.

Even in the dim light, his colour looked good, so he probably didn't have a collapsed lung. Still, she strapped an oxygen mask to his face before putting a spinal collar on.

When Miranda slit his jeans to expose the injured leg, she found a visible deformity. “We'll need to splint this,” she told Leon, still at John's head.

 

As she threaded an IV line into John's hand, he moaned.

“John,” Leon said. “Can you hear me?”

Another moan.

Sherlock appeared.

“John?” he said anxiously. He grabbed for the hand that Miranda wasn't holding. “John are you alright?”

“What?” he mumbled.

“John, you fell. Do you remember what happened?” Miranda asked him.

John's face scrunched up. “Sherlock?”

“I'm right here John,” the man assured him, squeezing his hand.

John visibly relaxed. “S'good.”

“John, you fell, and likely broke your leg. You also hit your head, which is why you're confused. Leon and I are going to pack you up and take you to the hospital so the doctors can take care of you.”

John attempted to nod, but was prevented from doing so by the spinal collar.

“We don't know if you have a spinal injury, so we're taking all precautions. Just lie still,” Miranda assured him. “Does anything hurt?”

John thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said finally.

“Okay John, can you tell me what hurts?”

It took him another moment before he could respond. “Head. Leg.”

Miranda nodded. “Okay.”

She gestured to Leon. “John, Leon is going to let go of your head so we can splint your leg. Can you make sure not to move?”

He hummed affirmatively.

Miranda smiled. “Great. I'll even have Sherlock come up there with you.”

She motioned for Sherlock to scoot over, which he did.

 

Within a few minutes, John's leg had been carefully splinted with minimal pain thanks to the dose of morphine he'd been given. With that taken care of, they enlisted Sherlock's help in rolling John onto the backboard.

John was compliant throughout the process, although he was still confused, even when they got him into the ambulance.

“Sherlock?” he breathed.

“I'm right here John,” he assured him, threading his fingers through John's. “We're going to hospital. I'm not hurt.”

And each time, John would relax, his vitals would improve, and Miranda was amazed.

She wasn't going to judge what the relationship was between the men, but it was certainly strong.

 

They dropped the two men off at the hospital, Sherlock still clutching John's hand.

 

Miranda realized this was the first time she'd seen Sherlock since the incident with his flat blowing up, which was quite some time ago. According to what she'd heard from other paramedics, there hadn't been other calls to his flat, or to where he'd fallen on one of the many street of London, which was unusual compared to before meeting John.

 

Whoever the man was, whatever he meant to Sherlock, Miranda was thankful to him for keeping Sherlock safe.


	6. Newsletter

News of the incident with Sherlock Holmes spread like wildfire between the paramedics. It was hard to keep confidentiality when everyone knew that 'the bloke who blogs about the detective' nearly died. (It was a bit of an exaggeration, but they needed something to do.) Miranda seemed to be the person who had the most contact with him (lucky her), and everyone wanted to know what he was like.

 

“Difficult,” she told them. “Mad, genius, and very difficult.”

She didn't say much more than that, and soon their interest waned in favour of the other paramedics who'd treated him as well. They were far more eager to talk about him. Frankly, Miranda wondered how much of it was true, judging by some of the whispers that reached her, but who was she to judge if it required an ambulance to get a fully grown man to hospital when he had a broken foot. (Although apparently there was something with tea and drugs, but the details were foggy.)

 

The next week, there was a flier in her mailbox and an email in her inbox. Both were the same, an article with helpful tips on how to deal with Sherlock Holmes when John Watson was injured.

She laughed, actually laughed, at some of the suggestions.

 

  * _Sherlock Holmes thrives on logic. However, if John Watson is hurt, all the logic in the world won't help you._

  * _Don't make Sherlock Holmes mad. He is trained in multiple forms of strange martial arts and will hurt you._

  * _Don't tell him that he can't come in the ambulance. If you do... well, you don't want to._

  * _John Watson is a doctor, and is probably more trained than you. If he tells you to do something, do it, as long as it doesn't sound incredibly stupid. (And even then, maybe do it.)_

  * _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson often get involved with dangerous people. Make sure police are always involved at a scene._

  * _Detective Inspector Lestrade is your best friend when it comes to dealing with the pair._

  * _If a government official shows up, it's probably Sherlock's brother. Don't provoke him, and don't let him sense your fear._




 

It continued on for the rest of the page. She had to admit, they were excellent tips, especially considering she'd dealt with at least half the things when she'd responded to the last call where John Watson was injured. (Of course, theory and practice were two different things, and even though the thought was welcome, she wondered if they could work. She only hoped she wouldn't have to be the one to do it.)

It was sent from an anonymous email address, which was probably for the best, but she couldn't resist hoping it would become a monthly thing.

Because despite how difficult Sherlock was to treat, and how even more difficult he was when it was John being treated, he was endearing, somehow. He was by far the most amusing of their frequent fliers, and undoubtedly her favourite, no matter how annoying the man got. He was fascinating and arrogant, sure, but he was also brilliant. Miranda was endlessly thankful for John Watson, because they no longer got calls for Sherlock overdosing or passing out with low blood sugar because he hadn't eaten for days. Of course, they did have to deal with a hysterical Sherlock occasionally, but her life could always use some variety.

 


	7. Meetings

 John's blog post a month later declared he's doing well, and was thankful to all the people who treated him, especially the ones who had to put up with Sherlock.

She debated leaving a comment, and in the end, doesn't.

 

It's that month that the meetings start.

There's just a mention at the bottom of the newsletter (which does turn out to be a monthly thing, although she's not sure how they keep coming up with all that material, but she suspects they have a source on the inside) that the following Friday there will be a casual meeting at a nearby pub to discuss further techniques, and that anyone who wished to come should RSVP.

She shot back an email and waited til Friday.

 

The person in charge of the meetings, as well as the newsletters, was someone that Miranda didn't know. In fact, no one seemed to know her, which was slightly suspicious.

She claimed to be highly experienced in dealing with special individuals and disasters, but Miranda thought she was too well dressed for that. The woman seemed immaculate. Hardly an attribute of someone in the emergency services industry.

(It only occurred to Miranda later that the woman never claimed to be a paramedic, or anything similar, which could have explained it.)

The pub was empty except for the paramedics who were there for the meeting, which was also suspicious. Miranda certainly wasn't going to argue though.

 

The woman, who introduced herself as Athena, spoke for half an hour about Sherlock and John, and took questions for another half hour.

She smiled a lot, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

 

After she mingled with the twenty or so paramedics who'd shown up, Miranda included, the woman excused herself, saying that there would be another meeting the next month, and the details would be in a later newsletter.

Miranda watched as the woman pulled out her phone, typed something with fantastic speed, and left in a dark car that pulled up at the kerb.

All very high class and discrete.

 

Despite her hesitations about the woman's knowledge and credentials, Miranda continued to attend the monthly meetings, which soon outgrew the small pub and had to be moved to a conference centre.

She had to admit, they were fascinating.

 

(She didn't believe the woman was who she claimed to be, but that was part of the fun after all.)


	8. A Scandal in Belgravia

 She didn't think that it would have anything to do with Sherlock Holmes or John Watson when her and Robert were dispatched to Belgravia. Reports of gunshots? They were mostly just going in case there were injuries, which wasn't very likely. But the police wanted medical there in case, so off they went.

 

It was... interesting to say the least.

When the police found the first body, they called for more backup.

As soon as they told them it was safe, they went rushing in.

The man who'd been shot was dead, for half an hour at least. A bullet right to the heart. The other two were regaining consciousness after being pistol whipped in the head, if the developing bruise patterns were anything to go by.

 

There was a call from upstairs, and she got to her feet after silently making sure Robert was okay where he was. He nodded to her. There would be another ambulance there within moments, and the men weren't badly injured.

 

Upstairs was another story. There was a woman-

“She's just knocked out. I could use some help,” a voice insisted.

“Sherlock, look at me,” it pleaded.

She groaned. Not again.

But indeed, rounding the corner to see past the bed, there was Sherlock Holmes, sprawled on the floor, eyes half open, limbs moving in an uncoordinated fashion, barely conscious.

“John?” she said.

Relief washed over his face.

“I don't remember your name, sorry, but I'm glad you're here. She's drugged him with... something, not quite sure what.”

“Miranda,” she reminded him, glancing at the needle John offered. “Who did?”

He shook his head. “She left through the window. Probably long gone by now.”

“When did it happen?”

Miranda dug through one of the kit bags.

“No more than five minutes ago.”

She hesitated. “Very fast acting then.”

“He was on the ground by the time I came back to the room. No more than a minute.”

“That rules some things out then,” she muttered.

“She told me it may cause vomiting.”

“Right. Sherlock? We're going to roll you on your side, alright.”

The man had stopped moving, but his eyelids were still fluttering occasionally, so she spoke to him in case he could hear.

After he was on his side, she moved on to get a set of vitals.

John was murmuring to Sherlock the whole time, perhaps trying to reassure him, or maybe ask him questions. She knew that wasn't going to work well though.

 

Robert entered the room just as she deflated the BP cuff.

“The other team is here. What do you have?”

“He was injected with something. She was knocked unconscious,” Miranda added, gesturing to the woman behind her, who was still out cold.

“I think it was probably ketamine,” John said suddenly.

Miranda nodded. “Could be. His vitals are normal, if slightly elevated, which could be explained by ketamine. It was a bit too fast acting for barbiturates or benzos, and his breathing isn't depressed.”

The doctor sat back on his heels and surveyed Sherlock. “That's good,” he muttered.

“I would recommend running him in,” she told him, “But I know he doesn't like hospitals.”

John considered it, but shook his head. “I'll just take him home and keep an eye on him. I don't think she wanted to hurt him.”

“What the hell have you done this time?”

The voice came from the doorway, and it sounded both angry and despondent at the same time.

Miranda turned to see DI Lestrade.

John sighed before speaking. “Sherlock's been drugged. I can't tell you about the case, and if I did, you wouldn't believe me. Can you help me get him home?”

The DI gaped for a moment.

“Yeah, whatever,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I'm only here because of a courtesy call from a certain someone,” he huffed.

John nodded a thanks to Lestrade and looked up at her. “Thank you,” he said, offering his hand. “Again.”

She smiled, and took it. “No problem. Just... try to keep out of trouble, both of you.”

Miranda glanced down at the detective, who seemed to be asleep now except for the occasional twitch of a limb. “Need help with him?”

“No, we've got it,” he assured her. “You've got other people to help.”

She remembered Robert behind her. “Of course. Good to see you again Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade nodded at her before he bent down with John to wrangle the detective.

 

She turned her attention to the woman on the ground behind her, who was just regaining consciousness.

“Sweetheart, what's your name? Do you know where you are?”

There was the occasional muttering and banging behind her as the detective was manhandled down the stairs, but she remained focused on her new patient, squeezing hands and taking vitals.

 

Sherlock Holmes was fine, and therefore, no longer her concern.


	9. Conference

 At the annual paramedic conference in the fall, there was a bloody workshop on the two of them. 'The Baker Street Situation: How To Deal With Sherlock Holmes When John Watson is Injured, And Vice Versa'.

It filled up almost instantly. They had to run the session twice for all the demand.

Of course she went. How could she not? She could always use more ways to deal with them, since it seemed she was always the one forced to deal with them.

 

The presenter was a doctor who knew both of them, Mike Stamford. It turned out he was the one who introduced them.

She wasn't sure if she loved the man or hated him for what he'd done.

He was pleasant enough.

The course was quite informative. Mike had been friends with John Watson before he went to Afghanistan, and met Sherlock in the interim. It was only by chance that he happened to meet John again, and introduce him to Sherlock Holmes, who was looking for a flatmate.

He had no idea that the men would become fast friends, and solve crimes together, putting both of them in almost constant danger. But now that they were, he figured he could help with the damage control.

At least, that was what he told them in the first five minutes, before moving on to all the reasons why Sherlock Holmes was both impossible and as easy to read as a book, at least when it came to John Watson.

Miranda was pleasantly surprised at the depth of his knowledge and understanding about the relationship between the two men, since that what was really important, not the medical side. They all knew how to backboard patients, control bleeding, splint broken bones, inject drugs, and maintain airways. But there was no class in college that trained them how to deal with Sherlock Holmes. (Although, she supposed, if he kept up like he was, there just might be.)

The session flew by.

They did roleplaying at the end, where they paired up and one of them had to be the paramedic, the other Sherlock. Mike's instructions to the Sherlocks were 'Refuse. Imagine you're a toddler. Now mix that with a mother who's lost her child.'

She was paired with Scott, who worked out of Westminister and seemed arrogant. Probably justified, as he was very capable, but it rubbed her the wrong way.

(She didn't tell him that she'd dealt with Sherlock five times and counting, and had won every time.)

When she was being Sherlock, hysterical and ornery, Scott was assertive and calm, and she admired his skill.

When he was being Sherlock, no matter what she did, he refused. He was taking the toddler part way too far.

Finally, exasperated, she bellowed at him “SHERLOCK HOLMES. SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP.”

He looked at her in awe for a moment, before telling her “No.”

“For fuck's sake, are you kidding me?” she gaped at him. “That worked on the actual Sherlock Holmes, so you can just stop now.”

She'd caught Mike's attention with her bellowing.

“I don't think so,” Scott said.

“It most certainly did,” she retorted. “I was there when John had his fall. Who do you think made him shut up then?”

Scott shrugged.

Mike seemed impressed. “I have someone you should talk to. Sherlock walks all over her. You could teach her some things.”

Miranda smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”


	10. John is Stabbed

By the time she had her next run in with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, she was an emergency care practitioner.

 

Clarice was the one who gave her the call. She was working an overnight shift, and was mostly just done with everything, so of course it had to be a hectic night.

And to top it all off, right after they'd finished running in an old lady with suspected stroke, they got the call for the stab wound in the park.

Clarice broke the bad news to her in a way that only she could, simultaneously sounding optimistic and serious.

“Thirty something year old male, stab wound to abdomen. Conscious and breathing. Police are on their way. Oh, but... Miranda... It's a code 221bj.”

She exhaled loudly. “Fuck. Thanks for letting me know Clarice.”

“Good luck.”

 

She would need it.

John Watson was hurt and there would be hell to pay.

 

She wondered why it was always her who managed to get the 221b calls (the recently put into effect code for calls of a Sherlock and John nature) because it seemed she'd gotten all of them.

 

She briefed Tariq as he wove in and out of the London streets.

“Sherlock Holmes is the most brilliant man you'll ever meet, and he will kill for John Watson. I'll mostly handle Sherlock, you focus on John. Have you read the newsletters?”

“Of course,” he replied.

“Good. Time to apply it.”

 

They were in Hyde park. God only knows what they were doing there at 2am, but this _was_ Sherlock Holmes, and that was about as good an answer as they could get.

At least they were near a road.

 

Tariq took the ambulance as far as they could go, and they hopped out. It was just off the road that they spotted the two men. John was lying flat on the dirt. Sherlock was just as pale as the man on the ground he was holding the scarf to. He spun off a list of statistics, and Miranda listened while Tariq began his assessment, knowing that facts made Sherlock feel safe. “Stab wound to the upper right abdomen, estimated 30 percent blood loss so far. His heart rate is 132 and his respiratory rate is 30. He's confused, but still conscious.”

Miranda nodded. “You keep holding pressure, okay. Tariq?”

“BP is low, heart rate and resps are what he said, he's satting alright at 96.”

“John?” she said loudly. The man in question groaned quietly, but otherwise was unresponsive.

“Sherlock was he more lucid before?”

“He was talking before,” Sherlock breathed.

“Okay. Tariq, what exactly is the BP?” she countered, not straying from her task of finding a vein. It was hellishly difficult, with the amount of blood loss.

Tariq hesitated. “98 over 52.”

Miranda nodded. “I can't find a vein. I'm going to throw a line in the jugular.”

“What do you mean you can't find a vein? He's bleeding out, he needs fluids,” Sherlock said desperately, clinging to John's hand.

“I know that Sherlock, which is why-”

“Do something,” he pleaded, bordering on hysterical.

“Sherlock Holmes!” she bellowed. “So help me I _will_ sedate you. Either calm down and back up, or get drugged and get your own ride to hospital. Your choice.”

That shut him up.

“Sorry,” he muttered, collecting himself and sitting back slightly, still holding John's hand.

“Thank you.”

She successfully inserted the IV line into John's neck and began running fluids.

By then, Tariq had put a pressure dressing on John's abdomen and had hooked him up to a number of monitors and wires, including an ECG, which showed a rapid, but only slightly irregular rhythm. He was still satting well, even though his consciousness was waning.

“John?” Miranda said again loudly while Tariq prepared to move him. There was only a slight whimper in response this time. “John, we're taking you to hospital now. Sherlock is coming though, so don't worry. We'll take good care of you.”

 

With that they scooped him up onto a stretcher, strapped him in, and loaded him into the ambulance.

Miranda practically shoved Sherlock into one of the seats before climbing in herself.

“Which hospital?” he whispered.

“St Mary's. Three minutes away with an excellent trauma centre. They'll take good care of him.”

He nodded, and sighed with relief, grasping for John's hand again as they set off.

 

She eyed his vitals, which were headed in the wrong direction, despite the fluids and other supportive measures. His blood pressure was supposed to be kept low, so as to not thin his blood too much and prevent it from any clotting that it may be attempting. But it was more than that. His breathing was growing sporadic, and his colour was worsening. Perhaps most concerning was the increasing amount of irregular beats on the ECG.

 

She didn't tell Sherlock about this, and kept her face straight as she reached for the drugs box.

 

Within thirty seconds, John stopped breathing.

Miranda took a second to knead his sternum, calling his name loudly, to no avail.

“What's happening?” Sherlock asked anxiously.

He sounded close to a meltdown again, which was the last thing she needed.

“He's not breathing. So help me, do not freak out Sherlock...” she muttered, grabbing the BVM and bagging him. “It's normal, considering. Do not panic. I told him I would take care of him and I will.”

 

With practised ease, she slid the ET tube into John's throat. Within seconds she was bagging him again, noting the improvement in colour despite the blood loss.

But it was only a temporary measure. What the man needed was surgery and blood to replace the stuff pouring out of him.

 

When they left the pair at the hospital, John Watson's heart was still beating, and therefore, so was Sherlock's.

Another job well done.

 

(She called the hospital the next day. John made it through surgery just fine, and was recovering nicely in intensive care. She awaited the blog post about it.)

 


	11. Epilogue

Then Sherlock Holmes died. Jumped off a bloody building of all things. A fraudulent detective.

Bullshit, that's what she thought. The man was a genius.

 

She couldn't help but be angry. All the times she'd worked to fix Sherlock up, to fix John up, meant nothing.

Because Sherlock went full force at a sidewalk from four floors up, and John watched.

Miranda couldn't do anything for either of them.

 

Of course, two years later that bastard showed up again, apparently not dead.

Then John Watson very promptly nearly died, and everything was back to normal.

 

The newsletters resumed.

She couldn't have been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to think there's always room for me to come back to this story. I did plan to continue to the third season, but it felt right ending it here for now.  
> But one never knows when the muse may strike. Miranda will always be taking care of Sherlock, and we may see more of her yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt can be found here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=130160902#t130160902


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